retiredmartin

January 2026. Widnes.

From a morning in Liverpool to mourning in Widnes, as Peter is laid to rest with his parents.

“Anyone for Widnes needs to move to the front carriages” says the nice guard in his guttural Mersey accent, confirming that the station doesn’t have a long platform,

but it’s the only one they’ve got since Central and South stations closed.

And it was good enough for Paul Simon when he penned “Homeward Bound” about a trip to East Anglia for a takeaway in 1965.

The station is fifteen minutes from town but literally two from the crematorium, and I’d allowed an hour to take in all that Widnes has to offer. And to buy shoes insoles.

A quid from the indoor market, and yes that is an unsusual pound sign.

It’s a utilitarian shopping centre, lacking the swagger of Runcorn, and as so often the Spoons is the star.

I’ve arrived too early for the Burns’ Week haggis in Katsu sauce,

and only dared a half of Otter, in case the loos at the Crem are unexpectedly closed.

An impressive range in this GBG perennial; Mudgie would have found something to like there,

and the Otter is a rich, chewy NBSS 4. Or close enough.

Right, shoes now dry, and a packet of Jakesmans of Boston throat sweets acquired, I take the scenic route back, past a lone red brick pub,

and through gorgeous and unfussy Victoria Park,

which is busier than the town centre.

At the duck feeder, I see a contactless care reader that will dispense 50p worth of bird feed,

and almost cause my own death as the entire bird population of Halton make a dart for my hand.

Right, let’s see farewell to the great man.